


It's Astronomical, Really

by maps



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, POV John Watson, idk there might be a part w violence/suicide later but no one is going to die i promise, mary morstan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-03 14:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maps/pseuds/maps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not entirely proven, but Sherlock has his own gravity, like a planet. Or a sun. John just wonders how long he can last until he's pulled past stars and galaxies to the sound of Sherlock's laugh and the way he looks when he can't figure out a case. Or the face he makes when he finally gets it. There's something about his dreams, though, that make him believe in metaphysical things like worm holes, fate, and the power of the human mind. Maybe even God. But his reality is burning up around him as he gets sucked farther into Sherlock's growing atmosphere. Can he decide what's real? Will he remember before the collision?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stay With Me For Now

**Author's Note:**

> The entire fic is based/inspired by one overarching song, but I don't want to say or else it might give away major plot twists so i'll post it with the last chapter :)) I hope you guys enjoy angst holy shit.
> 
> UPDATE: omg i changed the summary! i like this one better :) (01/03/14) (it's so weird to put 14 wtf)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ah." Sherlock smiles. "I never would have guessed before now, but this...it all makes sense."
> 
> John doesn't look back at him, too awed by how beautiful the jellies glide through the water as if they're a part of it. "What d'you mean?"
> 
> "This. You. Jellyfish. You're not too different."
> 
> .::.::.
> 
> Or rather conversations, realizations, a new case, and aquariums.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally inspired by the song Cold Coffee, by Ed Sheeran, and somehow got out of my hands oops.
> 
> "Tell me if I'm wrong  
> Tell me if I'm right  
> Tell me if you need a loving hand  
> To help you fall asleep tonight  
> Tell me if I know  
> Tell me if I do  
> Tell me how to fall in love the way you want me to
> 
> 'Cause I love the way you wake me up  
> For goodness sake will my love not be enough?"

Sherlock's phone trills loudly from downstairs, echoing throughout the still flat. John blinks against the bright white light shining in through his window. When had his curtains been opened? He specifically remembers pulling them closed last night before he went to sleep. _Huh_.

Sherlock's voice trails up to John's ears but the words are lost to him. It's just low sounds with excited undertones. _A new case_. The pounding of footsteps up stairs only proves Johns hypothesis. He flips over in bed, throwing a pillow over his head just in time for Sherlock's exploding entrance into his bedroom.

"Lestrade. A suspiciously uninjured man found dead at the London Aquarium." He's pacing at the foot of his bed, John guesses. He just wishes they could have one lazy day indoors with nothing but tea and crap telly, or those documentaries Sherlock likes, and cheap takeaway and warmth and each other. Just one! It's not so demanding a request, honestly. But no. There must always be an experiment or a case or violent violin playing or human body parts in his fridge. There always has to be _something_. Is it never enough to just _be_ together?

"They'd prefer us to get what we need from the scene before they open for the public at ten. It's half-six now so that gives us more than enough time--" Sherlock stops moving and John assumes he is more than likely staring at the lump his body makes under thick blankets. "John! Why aren't you getting _uuuup_? This is an _important_ case!"

John groans, his face smashed into the mattress. "Noooooooo," he whines. "Can't it wait a while?"

"Come John, you're acting like a child. I'll go without you if I have to." Sherlock's voice is quick and John knows he's lying. He hasn't gone alone to an important case in ages. There's something else, though. His voice is off. _Is he smiling?_

John chances a peak up at him from under his pillow, knowing just how child-like he must look, and sees that Sherlock is, in fact, smirking in that way he does and John's long since figured out it's damn near impossible to say no to that face. If he can, though, he'll try to put off leaving his warm bed for as long as he can. He smiles lazily up at his flatmate, who looks about ready to actually dress John himself, and really, John wouldn't put it past him.

"Or you could stay with me, for now. Just a short kip, is all. Surely you need the sleep." John notices how Sherlock's eyebrows pull together for a second before smoothing out. He has a sneaking suspicion that Sherlock still isn't used to someone--besides Mycroft--caring for his well being. It actually makes him upset that Sherlock doesn't think he deserves or needs care from others. Of all the people John has ever known, Sherlock is the most deserving of little acts of kindness like hot tea (with two lumps of sugar) and making sure he's getting enough sleep. Simple, really.

Sherlock looks as if he's almost considering it. "But why here? My bed's only just downstairs." 

It's almost as if he's needing of persuasion. John folds the blankets back, inviting. "Saves time," is all he says, lying back down. He closes his eyes, hoping it was enough. The shift of the mattress answers his thoughts as Sherlock lays down beside him, and, without thinking, John moves just close enough to feel the heat of Sherlock's body against his own like it's something he's used to doing. He realizes too late what he's done, but knows that if he hurriedly moves away now, it'll be all the more obvious that this isn't--strictly speaking--okay for him to do as they're "just friends, colleagues." He sighs, already half asleep again, relaxing into the idea of Sherlock in his bed and into the warmth and feel of him so close.

Sherlock has always had a calming effect on him. His touches, they're never anything big--if any at all. Sherlock isn't too keen on that kind of thing, John knows. It's a barely there hand on his shoulder or the brushing of (probably unintentional) fingertips while handing Sherlock the book he'd asked for an hour ago while John had been out. It's those small moments that he relaxes, lets everything else drift away. No matter if he's agitated over a case or upset over something that had happened while the hospital, Sherlock is always there to calm him, never more than just a silent world away.

He sometimes wonders if falling in love is similar to Sherlock 'deleting' things from his mind, that sometimes you meet someone that makes you slowly forget about all the bad things you don't want to remember anymore, like alcoholic sisters and war and killing or a broken, bleeding heart. John knows Sherlock can't erase his past or alter his memories or fix his family problems, he knows that, but he thinks that maybe the momentary lack of _wanting_ to keep all the shit he's been through is worth it; the bliss of ignorance in a fragmented touch. Maybe he is falling.

Maybe, like planets, they each have their own gravity, and John wonders when one of them will win out over the other. He can't yet decide if he's already crashed, pulled past stars and galaxies to the feel of Sherlock's long limbs beside him under covers. Limbs just waiting for John to reach out, touch, and be calmed by them, and get sucked farther into his atmosphere. Before he nods off, he swears he feels Sherlock slide closer to him. Like every other kind or sentimental thing Sherlock does, it's slight and barely there, but it's noticeable.

John smiles into his pillow. Maybe he's not the only one who's spiraling down.

.::.

He wakes to an empty bed, sighing when his hand runs over the cold sheets beside him. Somehow he knew Sherlock wouldn't be here when he awoke. Maybe it was the urgency in his eyes that glows whenever he's invited to work a new case, or maybe it was because he's Sherlock and that's just how he is. Still, John always gets his hopes up when it comes go Sherlock and his intentions.

He glances over at his clock. It's twelve bloody o'clock already? Well, shit. His short kip turned into four hours. Maybe _that's_ why Sherlock's not still in his bed. The man hardly sleeps.

The wood stairs are cold on his bare feet when he groggily draws himself out of bed to make his way to the kitchen and the silent house tells him that Sherlock actually did go off to the crime scene alone. He initially feels a bit hurt that he went without him, but as he makes his singular tea the image of Sherlock deciding whether or not to wake him or to just let him sleep makes John smile. He wonders if he had looked too peaceful to wake or if Sherlock just hadn't wanted to wait for him to get up, dressed, and ready to leave the flat. As he sits in his armchair with his tea and the days' paper, John has a feeling it's the latter. He doesn't mind, however, toying with the idea that maybe under his hard exterior, Sherlock might actually be a soft lad. It just seems..right.

Nothing but the sports section seems to interest John at the moment, so when he finishes browsing through the paper he sets it aside and tries to just enjoy his tea. After a few sips, that too seems rather boring as well. His eyes roam the walls of the room, scan the various papers Sherlock has about the place, evidence of his hobby in investigation and lack of sleep. He sees Sherlock's favorite white tea mug that he always uses sitting on the edge of the coffee table beside a few scattered books and _John's_ open laptop. It seems to be staring him in the face, the cup. A little reminder that he's alone in the flat. Sighing, he sets his own (almost cold) tea down to clean up after his ruddy messy flatmate.

He returns to his chair barely two minutes later and--quite literally--twiddles his thumbs over his tea cup. Cars drive past on Baker Street, muffled voices call for cabs, the wind blows. How long has it been since he's been sufficiently bored? With nothing at all to do? It's kind of funny, actually. This is exactly what John's wanted for the past two weeks, but it's not really good for him to be alone with his thoughts. Besides, one major aspect of his relaxing day at home is missing: Sherlock. It's not the same without him; John's fantasies of sleepy Sherlock can't be enacted alone unless he falls asleep and dreams it (which is honestly not far from the realm of possibility). He sighs. His boredom seems to echo through the empty room like the wind outside. It's quiet. He decides it's almost _too_ quiet, and, without thinking, he grabs his phone and hits his speed dial for Sherlock (five).

He picks up before the first ring. "Good, you're up," is all he says. John isn't even surprised.

He laughs, relaxing into his chair. Sherlock's voice is just so...it's just. It makes this quiet flat more of a _home_. (And yes, John is aware that he has enough sentiment for the two of them.) "Yes, and I see you've both one, had your morning tea without me, and two, couldn't even be bothered to pick up after yourself."

"Hush. You needed your sleep," Sherlock says, chastising, completely dismissing the cleaning accusation. "Plus, you take _ages_ to leave the flat. It's ridiculous."

John chuckles. He was right, after all. "Find anything useful?"

"Oh! Oh, the crime scene! John, you should have been there. It was phenomenal. The work of a true genius."

John rolls his eyes at his inappropriate admiration, used to it by now as just another thing Sherlock does that "separates him from the non-psychopaths," as Donovan would say.

"And do you know who this genius is yet?"

"No, of course not, John. Don't be so dim. It's not very becoming of you." 

John _Hah!_ 's sarcastically. "Right, and being a prick doesn't quite suite you much either. Where are you, by the way?"

"Barts."

John imagines Molly standing beside him impatiently, holding his phone to his ear for him while he examines various miniature things under a microscope. And really, it's not like that hasn't happened before.

"And you're still at home I'm assuming?" Sherlock asks. John gets this funny feeling close to butterflies because he's pretty positive that that's the first time Sherlock's ever referred to their flat as 'home.'

He nods even though he knows Sherlock can't see him. "Yup."

"Good. Stay. I'll be leaving here shortly."

"Sherlock, I'm not your dog-"

"Shhh-shh. Now John, I never said 'speak.'" 

"Sod off," John says half-halfheartedly. Sherlock's laugh sounds through the earpiece before turning to static air, the white noise of the technological age. John smiles to himself, wondering when the hell he started blushing whenever he made Sherlock laugh.

.::.

"So we're looking for a man, roughly five-seven/five-eight, with an uneven gait and size eleven feet," Sherlock finishes.

He's not eating, as usual when working on a case, but that doesn't stop John. Never has, really. Especially when they go to restaurants Sherlock has done favors for like Angelo's, where they are now after spending a long afternoon of investigating. Needless to say, John's more than enjoying his (free of charge) Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo and wine.

"What is he, a clown?" John says before taking a large bite of his pasta.

Sherlock furrows his eyebrows. "None of the evidence points to that conclusion." He's fishing for answers, John can see it in his eyes, confused that John could have found something before the great Sherlock Holmes.

John laughs. "Sherlock--no. No, I meant he has big feet is all. Giant."

"Ah, yes," Sherlock says. "Out of the ordinary. _So_ easy to spot." 

He flashes his eyes wide and takes a sip of John's Chardonnay as if they always share glasses of wine. Now that he thinks about it, John can't actually pinpoint when sharing food and drinks had become such a normal thing with them. It's not like he minds or anything. Actually, he likes how it makes him feel, the thought of Sherlock's lips where his have been... Childish, yes, but he finds it strangely intimate. It feels like a secret.

Sherlock takes another drink as John replies, "Easy for you to spot, anyway. You know, you can get a glass of your own if you really want some."

Sherlock looks away, pretending to pout, the wine glass resting lazily in his hand. "Aw, does John not want to share?" 

"I don't mind at all, actually," John says, pushing his half-eaten plate toward his flatmate with raised eyebrows. Taking the hint, Sherlock hands John the wine and crosses his arms.

"Not hungry."

"Fine, then I'm making sure you sleep tonight."

"Fine."

And, in all honestly, John thinks Sherlock only agreed because he was trying to make a hasty reply _and_ give the impression that he didn't care either way. Which, he's sure Sherlock actually does care. It's probably all now sinking in, ticking into place in his powerful mind: he's going to _actually_ have to "waste valuable hours sleeping when he could be figuring out important aspects of the case." Even though he knows he'll probably only sleep for a few hours, John finishes his pasta smugly watching Sherlock scowl out the window.

.::.

The cab to the aquarium plays out relatively the same way, with John amiably watching the city lights pass by under a darkening sky and Sherlock staring straight ahead. When they arrive roughly thirty minutes later (terrible traffic), Sherlock is quickly up and out of the backseat before John can even reach for his wallet. _Sherlock, always so dramatic_. But John assumes he's only trying to get a head start on as much work as he can strain his mind with before he's forced to rest in only a few hours.

He's waiting for John at the door, already having bought them each a ticket. Everything but the crime scene is open to the public. John protests having already paid because, being who they are and the fact they are working on this particular case, he argues that they could have got in for free. Sherlock dismisses him, saying that he wants to "experience it as a regular civilian," as the murderer had to as he'd come here to "plan his kill." Sherlock is somehow under the impression that this was a preconceived kill, and the killer had to have come here beforehand to "map out the security guards and cameras." But, really, it's just a regular aquarium, not a high security vault. Sherlock doesn't know better, never having even set foot inside an aquarium before this morning, when Lestrade called him about the case.

John just can't believe it, though. _Everyone_ has been to the aquarium before: if not for fun, then for a school trip. Honestly, he's curious as to why it's never appealed to Sherlock. Thousands of specimens kept behind glass, ready to be watched, observed. It's totally his kind of thing.

It's five o'clock and the place is empty. No one comes this late, surely, as it is nearing closing time (six); an hour is not enough time to tour the whole place. Well, maybe that's time enough for Sherlock.

The aquarium is located on the entire ground floor of the place. Four walls somehow encase all those giant tanks of water, thousands of marine animals. John remembers, as they walk into the first hallway, how the glass tunnels had terrified him as a kid. How he thought that at just the slightest noise or breath, the glass would break. He knows that feeling all too well now, except maybe it has a little more relevance now with any little thing able to set Sherlock off into manic deducing or make him shut off altogether in his own world and personal stars only he can see.

He feels the same amazement now, too, as he did when he'd come here all those years ago. It's incredible that such wondrous creatures are alive and pulsing (and maybe even thinking) just beyond his touch, behind a simple pane of glass. It all seems so trivial; that there can be a place as tranquil and at ease as this, while there are wars being fought and murders being undergone; it's all so surreal. It's nice though, John surmises, being able to remember for a moment that the world isn't actually a terrible place to live, that there are life forms that are somehow completely mindbogglingly flawless and right now, right this moment, he can find it in himself to be rapt in awe of them.

"Stupendous, really," Sherlock says quietly, looking up at the water ceiling that seems to go on for miles. 

John watches Sherlock's eyes, just as mesmerized by how they reflect the dim blue light of the water, before following his gaze to the sting ray floating directly above them. He takes a few steps down the hallway and closer to the clear walls.

"You know, I used to come here a lot as a kid. Loved it. I loved watching the water move so much I'd take the metro here and just sit for hours. During med school, as well. It was calming. " He feels like he's back to those days. The case is far from his mind, and, in its stead, are memories of light refracted through waves, of choral, of all the beautiful creatures, and Sherlock, somehow fitting in between his memories as if he belongs there.

"I didn't know that," Sherlock says. When John looks back at him, he realizes he's being studied. 

John looks away. "Yeah, well. You learn something new everyday. Didn't your mother ever tell you that?"

Through Sherlock's silence, John can practically feel his eyes roll.

"Now come. I want to show you my favorite tank in the whole aquarium."

"John, we're investigating a case, not on a field trip." But his voice has the twinge in it that John knows means that he's intrigued, and Sherlock follows when he lets the door shut behind him; just as John knew he would.

The room is as dark as he remembers it; even with the smaller tanks littered around, glowing green or purple or red, beside benches. Being back in this room makes John want to just drop where he is now, sit criss-cross in front of the giant wall of glass with nothing but clear water leading to a black backdrop and the clear jellyfish a glowing blue and just stop thinking. They're intoxicating. John could watch them for the rest of his life, and right now he wants to. 

How had he forgotten about this place? How could the countless hours he spent here after school just slip from his mind? Had he deleted them, as Sherlock does sometimes? If so, when had it occurred? Before the military? The war? After med school? When he met Sherlock eight months ago?

"Ah." Sherlock smiles. "I never would have guessed before now, but this...it all makes sense."

John doesn't look back at him, too awed by how beautiful the jellies glide through the water as if they were one with it. "What d'you mean?"

"This. You. Jellyfish. You're not too different."

At this, however, John does turn to gape at this ridiculous man he calls his best friend. "Sherlock, please do me the favor of not explaining further. I'm sure it'll just ruin my night so just. Spare me."

"It's not an insult, John. Jellyfish are very important to marine life." At this, John scoffs, knowing he's about to get an earful. Still resisting the urge to plop to the floor, he folds his arms across his chest and braces himself. "They are food for large fish and some turtles: important. Their intelligence is often overlooked due to the fact that they do not have brains but--" Sherlock makes a 'shut up' noise when John protests to this. "-- _but_ they are a species driven by instinct, John. _It's in their genes._ They 'go with the flow,' as the saying goes, and listen to what their bodies tell them to do. Like you."

John raises his eyebrows at his flat-mate, but doesn't reply because, like any other time spent with Sherlock, he can't exactly tell if he's being particularly clever or if he's actually just stating the facts in order to manipulate him for another ruddy experiment.

"They consist of mostly water and protein, yet they still are able to defend themselves with stinging tentacles. And they unknowingly help those around them, as Jellyfish have often been known to aide small to averaged sized fish--depending on the size of the jellyfish, of course--in seeking shelter from larger fish that intend to make them their prey. In other instances, very small crabs have been known to catch a ride on the dome of a jelly's back."

"Huh," John huffs. He turns to walk around the room to watch the smaller jellies alight with different hues, wanting to affix them and the look of Sherlock's face aglow with soft lights to his memory forever. "Are you just making this up as you go?"

Sherlock's watching him watch the colorful clouds drifting in the gentle currents. He can feel those eyes on him. He should be used to it by now, but something about the way he just _knows_ Sherlock is staring at him tells John that maybe Sherlock's eyes are portraying something new. If only he'd just turn and look, he'd see, he'd know, but he just _can't_ and he doesn't know why.

"No."

It's quiet in the room, quiet enough to hear the whirring of the tanks and the scuffing of his own feet as he walks from tank to tank, and definitely quiet enough to hear Sherlock talk under his breath, seemingly to himself, "And the simplicity of their beautify, John, can _never_ be overlooked. By anyone."

John tries to tell himself that he did not just hear what he definitely just heard. He closes his eyes and the temperature seems to drop as a shiver goes down his spine. He's never received a more heart wrenching compliment in his entire life. Figures, Sherlock would do something like this. Say something so _raw_ as if it were just another fact about bloody jellyfish. And, in all honesty, it really could have been about jellyfish. With Sherlock, John can never really be sure. It should aggravate him to no end, this uncertainty, this _warring_ in his mind about his dear friend, but he has a sick feeling it's what made him so interested to begin with, what drew him in. But maybe, by some miracle of fate or physics, Sherlock _is_ being pulled into John's gravity as well, despite it all.

Pretending he hadn't heard a thing because, honestly, he doesn't know what he could possibly say in response, John walks to the door to the next room. He turns to see Sherlock transfixed by the red lighted jellies. "Coming?"

They walk through the next few rooms quietly, neither interested enough in the animals to comment and neither wanting to break the silence first. They are investigating a murder, after all. As they walk from room to room, John's mind couldn't be further from the case. He knows Sherlock is concentrating on it, so really there's no point for him to as well. He's now convinced that Sherlock really had just been stating facts and that he over-thought the whole thing. Stupid, stupid. _Sherlock doesn't think I'm beautiful_ , John thinks. _He overlooks me all the time_.

He looks around them. They've stopped walking for some reason. He's annoyed with himself that he stopped walking when Sherlock did, as if his body subconsciously mirrors everything that Sherlock does. He grits his teeth at himself.

They're in the shark room. Two entire walls and the ceiling are nothing but windows into the tank, allowing them to view the sharks at almost any angle. He'd forgotten how powerfully they move through the water, how silky their skin seems, how terrifyingly gorgeous they really are. He's reminded of someone he knows. Pale smooth skin, a purposeful walk, nose held high, sharp cheekbones that seem to be nearly as sharp as those shark's teeth. He clears his throat.

"You're not too different, either, you and sharks," he says, watching Sherlock's profile and how it looks under quavering blue light. Sherlock's lip twitches in reply, as if he wanted to say something, but forced himself not to. _That's a first._

"They're misunderstood, sharks. People make them out to be so terrible, so utterly vicious, when in reality, they're quite gentle creatures. They need nutrients just like the rest of us, so they attack when necessary. It's not their fault, not really." John looks back to the various kinds of sharks whooshing past them. "They have an odd glorious-ness about them, too. Strong, powerful, gorgeous, yet so, _so_ misunderstood."

He looks back at Sherlock, curious as to what he's just said and why. He's stupid, really, for doing this. Sherlock could see through him in a _second_ if he tried. He probably could even if he didn't try, for that matter.

"Like you."

Sherlock continues to do nothing but watch the marvelous sharks. His expression doesn't hint at what he's thinking, his body language doesn't give any insight to how he feels. John sighs, accepting the silence, and leaves Sherlock standing alone in the dark; hoping to all hell he has enough pull on the man to draw him close behind, keeping him in orbit.

Maybe Mycroft was right. Maybe he likes the rush of it all.

.::.

"Just lie down, close your eyes, and _go to sleep_ ," John says. Sherlock tries to sit up in his bed, but John pushes him onto his pack. "It's not that difficult a concept, Sherlock."

"I understand the _concept_ , John. Just because my brain can't _shut up_ like yours can, doesn't warrant insults."

He's crossed his arms over his chest and is pouting like he does any other time he isn't getting his way. Who's childish now? "You're being a child. It's _sleep_ , Sherlock! Not torture. Believe it or not, you need it to stay alive."

"Is this another one of your 'Save Sherlock from Himself' campaigns because, if so, I want no part of it."

John remembers the other two 'campaigns.' The first had happened not long after him moving in with Sherlock. He never cleaned up after himself. He still never does, but this was just bad. Rubbish everywhere, dirty tea cups in every corner with the tea bags just thrown to the floor--it was just terrible living conditions for such a seemingly _civilized_ man such as Sherlock. John had made him start throwing rubbish in the bin and, at the very least, start putting his dirty dishes in the sink for John to wash up. So simple.

"So what if it is? You're going to get seriously ill one day because of how you treat your body. And I'm sick of it."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Please, John, oh please tell me more about how my 'body is a temple.' I've seemed to forget since the last _eighty-millionth_ time you've told me since we've met."

The second campaign was with food. They had a similar argument back a few months ago as him and Sherlock are having now. _It's what your body needs. 'I'm not hungry.' Sherlock, you need to eat. Now. 'Eating slows me down, John. I've told you over and over.' Sherlock, eating gives you energy! Did you ever pay attention in school? Or did you delete that from your memory too?!_ Needless to say, John knows how impossible it is to argue with Sherlock Holmes. Yet here he is, trying again.

He clenches his fists. He's only trying to help. Can't Sherlock tell that he _cares_? "It is a temple!" He takes a calming breath, concentrating on uncurling his fingers. "I'll stay here until you fall asleep if it comes to that."

To his surprise, Sherlock laughs. "Why. Are you. Laughing."

He rolls onto his side, visibly suppressing a giggle. "This is all so funny. Isn't it?"

Yeah, maybe it is a bit funny how infuriating the bastard is, how stubborn, how ignorant, how completely _daft_ he is ninety percent of the time. But, maybe it is a bit amusing that they 'fight like an old married couple,' as he's been told on multiple accounts by both Greg and Mrs. Hudson. It used to annoy him, that statement and others like it, but he's found how true it all actually is. There was even a time when John would cringe at every reference to him and Sherlock being 'together,' but they do act the part convincingly enough however innocently it had been at first. Now John has to stop himself from doing the things he used to be horrified that people had thought that he did--before--, leaving him scared and confused and always wondering why Sherlock never even tries to disprove the rumors. And maybe he cares a little too much for Sherlock, maybe he does like thinking about the cliche roles in their friendship, maybe he does hope that somewhere in Sherlock's Mind Palace is the knowledge of what love looks and feels like, enough for him to know it when--or if--he ever feels it. 

He sits on the edge of Sherlock's bed, giving up, or giving in, whichever (both are relevant when Sherlock is involved). "We better keep it down or Mrs. Hudson will be calling all her friends telling them how we've 'had another domestic.'"

Sherlock lays flat on his back, belting out a laugh. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson!"

John laughs to himself at the sight and sound. Sherlock is so soft when he laughs, so pliant, even if he still looks like he has secrets behind his eyes. "If we ever actually did have a row--for real--, she'd have a stroke."

"You're probably right," Sherlock says. He's smirking his smirk again. He usually only does that when he knows something John doesn't, which, John digresses, is almost all the time. 

John pats the bed lightly. "Get some sleep, yeah? I wasn't kidding when I said I'd stay and make sure that you do. Even if I have to work tomorrow."

Sherlock rolls over onto his stomach, sprawling out like one of the many starfish they'd seen earlier in the evening. "Oh _god no_ , John. Imagine the talk!" He's always so sarcastic, the twat. Mocking the way John used to be. He wonders if Sherlock's noticed the transition from that John to the John he his now.

The John he is now sits there for a minute watching Sherlock and wondering if it'd be too forward to say, 'So let them talk,' and then proceed to explore the expanse of his back with more than just his eyes. Sherlock's torso rises and falls slowly. John licks his lips. Yes, it'd be slightly too forward for him to run his hands down Sherlock's sides or to kiss every vertebrae down his spine or to hold him long enough to memorize how he breathes when he's asleep. Yeah, maybe a bit too forward. What in the world would the old John think of him now?

He heads for the door, trying to put enough space between him and Sherlock before he does something stupid and brash like tell him he might be falling in love. Just before he shuts the door, Sherlock says, "Goodnight, John Watson," his voice muffled by his pillow, as if his mere name is an admission of some sort.

John can't be certain, but it sounded like Sherlock had been smirking again. What secret could he possibly have discerned only from John's _breath?_

Knowing Sherlock, probably everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, I didn't actually make up all those facts about jellyfish! I found them all in this cute little article here: http://www.jellywatch.org/blooms/facts. This is my first Sherlock fic ever so yeah please be nice bbs (ﾉ´ヮ´)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧


	2. Tell Me If I'm Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's bad, actually, the way John thinks of Sherlock in his head. As _his_ and _mine_ and _home_. Very bad. Sherlock isn't his, their life together isn't measured in _I love you_ 's, their breath doesn't mingle in the way John so wishes it would. He needs to stop this, this kind of thinking because it'll never happen. Sherlock is, well, he's _Sherlock_. He's a genius, of course, but he's so daft, really. So dim sometimes. Sher doesn't take his words into account, doesn't know that a name can change meaning when on the right pair of lips, doesn't realize calling someone beautiful would ever make their heart skip a beat.
> 
> .::.::.
> 
> Wherein Mrs. Hudson gives John sex advice, Sherlock acts moody (as usual), John tries hard not to let his feelings get too out of hand (and fails), and a new melody (of the violin variety) starts to trickle through John's mind, supposedly from divine invention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, title from the song Cold Coffee by Ed Sheeran. (Also, not beta'd so if there are mistakes please tell me :)

John wakes up with his dream still on his mind, a strange and beautiful melody lingering in the background of it all. Sherlock had been in it, or, well, Sherlock had been the main component, meaning it was about Sherlock and Sherlock only. That seems to be happening more often now, as if John's mind isn't already completely consumed by Sherlock in his waking hours too. He imagines his entire subconscious is full of him, of Sherlock in cabs, of Sherlock bundled up in his coats and scarves, of Sherlock drinking tea, of Sherlock's face in every possible expression, of Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock, completely unable to rid him of the space in his brain. Or maybe he isn't imagining anything. What if it's all real and John really is losing his fight against Sherlock's gravity. He can't help it, so bad that all he wants is to fall back into the dream, but somewhere, deeper in his mind, is the knowledge of needing to be to work by six o'clock. He's sleepy, though, and just wants a few more minutes' rest, a few more minutes alone with the Sherlock he keeps locked in his mind.

He tries to fall back asleep (he really does), but the light on his closed lids is more distracting than annoying because he doesn't understand why it's so bright in his room. He peaks open one eye (giving up on getting any aspect of his dream back) to, oddly enough, see the sunrise shining on the horizon of a clear sky through his window, the curtains pulled wide. Now he _certainly_ remembers closing those last night. _Dammit, Sherlock_ , John thinks, mentally deciding to have a stern talking-to with him if this happens again because he's now sure it's him who's doing it. Probably only to annoy him.

 _Why was he even in my room to begin with?_ John wonders if he stayed, if he lingered to watch him sleep. Would he have been able to deduce that he's the vivid topic of John's dreams most nights if he did stay?

Either way, he doesn't have time to fall back asleep even if he could, John throws on a dressing gown and shuffles down to the kitchen.

Sherlock's door is ajar and the shower is running. John figures he'll be out and dressed within minutes, so he makes tea for the both of them and scrambles up the last two eggs for his breakfast, purposely not acknowledging the fact that there are more than one disembodied fingers sitting in a plastic container beside the egg carton.

"Mmm, tea," Sherlock says, spotting his white cup waiting for him on the table. "Toast?" he asks John.

How thoughtful. His eggs are almost done, too. _Huh_. "Sure. And Sherlock, have you been in-" He figured he'd just ask Sherlock about his curtains now, instead of the next time he wakes up blinded, but before he can finish speaking Sherlock puts a piece of buttered toast in his open mouth. "Twat," he says around the obstruction. Sherlock just laughs. _Has he always laughed like that? Warm and bright and so bloody distracting?_ Recalling the night before and Sherlock's softening laughter, he guesses maybe he always has laughed that way all along. John loves the thought of discovering new things about him, even if he has to keep his findings in his head. Sometimes it's enough.

"John-continue this conversation later, shall we?" Before he can answer, Sherlock dashes off to his room to change, chatting (to himself) all the way. "I have a good feeling about today. I feel new: refreshed!"

John shakes his head. "Funny what a nights' sleep can do for your health, Sherlock. It's not like I'm a _doctor_ or anything." 

"Body's a temple. Sleep is good. Food is also beneficial. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm good, though, thanks. Too early for a lecture, I'm afraid, unless of course I'm the one behind the pulpit." He rushes in, grabbing his other piece of toast. Sherlock usually only has tea for breakfast, but today he's got _two_ slices of toast in his stomach without John even having to argue in into it. John couldn't be more smug about it. He doesn't mind showing it, either. Sherlock won't notice, not when he's hyper like this, his mind always half thinking about the current case.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock nearly yells as she walks around the corner into the kitchen. He kisses her temple even though he's got a mouthful of toast. "So sorry," he says to both her and John after swallowing. "Got to dash. A case to solve and all."

"What about your tea?" John calls after him. His footsteps pause on the wooden stairs, before drawing closer and back into the kitchen. He picks up his tea, chugs it all down in four giant gulps, and turns back for the stairs. He pops his head back around the corner. 

"Have good day at surgery, John. Mrs. Hudson." He nods to the elder woman before dashing down the stairs, slamming the door on his way out.

"Someone's in a good mood," Mrs. Hudson says. She picks Sherlock's cup off the table and puts it in the sink for washing.

At the table now, with his eggs and toast, John says, "I'll say."

Over the running water Mrs. Hudson replies, "Looks like you two made up after your little domestic last night, huh?"

John nearly chokes on his toast. After clearing his throat he doesn't really know what to say, or how to go about disputing her statement. Maybe he'll just do what Sherlock always does: make light of the rumor, but not refute it.

"It looks like it, yeah," he says, blushing. "He actually got some sleep, too." He takes a bite quickly, worried that Sherlock will pop up behind the corner again and catch him in his lie, his small little act of rebellion.

Mrs. Hudson laughs. "Wore him out, did you? Take advantage of _that_ as much as you can, dear. You're not young and nimble forever." 

Shocked, John takes another hasty bite of eggs. Is he getting sexual advice from _Mrs. Hudson_?! This is definitely something he never thought he'd ever have to talk to her about when he agreed to move in with Sherlock. John's nothing if not adaptable-more so since meeting his flatmate actually-, so he tries not to be too obviously embarrassed to have been talking about Sherlock being in a good mood because he's supposedly feeling more _released._

He clears his throat. "Yeah. Right. Yeah."

"Oh John, stop being so shy. It's just sex! Everybody does it." Mrs. Hudson says, laughing to herself as she gathers up John's dishes as well. He grips his tea cup with both hands, hoping the steam will calm his nervous breath. "Even myself, if you'd believe it. I've got a daughter, y'know."

"A daughter? I didn't know that." He imagines Mrs. Hudson was-and is-the absolute perfect mother. His smile turns from nervous to something close to endearment at the thought. He quite likes the idea of her as a mother, and really, he doesn't understand how he hadn't seen it sooner with the way she treats him and Sherlock all the time. Cleaning up after them, making them dinner nearly every Sunday night. He thinks she just misses being needed by someone. He finds that he does too.

She nods fondly, turning back to her dishes. "Name's Susanne. Nearly thirty-four, my little Susanne. Tried to fix her up with Sherlock, actually, before I knew he was..." She looks over her shoulder at him, now her turn to be shy. "Well, you know."

He clears his throat after a moment. "Yeah, well it's just..." He doesn't know what to say because this conversation is rooted in the subject of his relationship and sex- _with Sherlock_ -that they aren't actually having; sex that John isn't exactly sure Sherlock ever wants to have with anyone at all, let a lone him. He doesn't even know what he's trying to say when he sighs admittedly. "Sherlock is just..."

Mrs. Hudson inhales knowingly, as if she could possibly know what's going on in John's brain-what's _been_ going through his brain for longer than he'd like to admit. "John, dear, I know Sherlock. I know he can be selfish sometimes and doesn't think about other's needs-" 

At the word _needs_ , John blanches.

"-but you've got to be patient with him, John. This is all new to him, you know, he's never had anyone before you I don't think."

Her voice trails off as she's probably trying to think back and remember if she'd ever seen Sherlock with someone. John thinks that'd be a curious thing, watching Sherlock attempt to take a nice young man on a date. It'd go disastrously but Sherlock would be none the wiser. He'd most likely think the man would basically be required to join him on a second date merely because he'd agreed to the first one. Sherlock...so clueless. 

It's bad, actually, the way John thinks of Sherlock in his head. _His_ and _mine_ and _home_. Very bad. Sherlock isn't his, their life together isn't measured in _I love you_ 's, their breath doesn't mingle in the way John so wishes it would. He needs to stop this, this kind of thinking because it'll never happen. Sherlock is, well, he's _Sherlock_. He's a genius, of course, but he's so daft, really. So dim sometimes. Sher doesn't take his words into account, doesn't know that a name can change meaning when on the right pair of lips, doesn't realize calling someone beautiful would ever make their heart skip a beat.

Mrs. Hudson takes his almost finished tea from his hands. He smiles up at her in a small way. 

"You're good for him, John. You make him happy; happier than I've ever seen him. Just remember that." She smooths down his messy bedhead and kisses his temple as Sherlock had done to her not ten minutes ago. She washes his tea cup silently. After, she wanders downstairs, the mention of needing a walk on her lips.

John's left alone with his scrambling thoughts as he showers and dresses for work. He's more consumed by them than he has been in some time, confusing cases not included, his continually opened curtains far from his ever spinning mind.

.::.

"John! Why haven't you answered your phone all morning?!" 

"I was _working_ , Sherlock. You know, that thing I do to get money and help pay the rent?" Wow, that sounded much more domestic than he'd intended. Sarah eyes him as he puts on his coat. He mentally sets a reminder for him to actually think before he speaks.

"Oh, dull." 

John sighs. Sherlock can be so insufferable. "Right. Well what did you want that you had to phone me-" He pulls his phone away from his ear to glance at the screen. "-seventy-two times?" Completely insufferable.

"One, I needed to be informed of approximately what time you would be home." There's that _H_ word again. "Second, I needed you to go investigate a lead on the sister of the security guard who found the victim. Thought she could be a possible suspect. However, you took too long to answer and I've already questioned her, though it was rather inconclusive. And third, I needed-need-to know where your laptop charger is. I can't seem to find it anywhere."

John rolls his eyes. He's since refused to get angry about Sherlock using his things. He'll do it regardless, so there's really no point.

"That's all you wanted?" John had expected something, well, something _more_. Then again, that's just Sherlock, he guesses. The unpredictable Sherlock, the Sherlock John can never really be certain of. Not sure of anything in particular, really, it's just that there's always a chance that something might be off with him, that something could go wrong at any given moment. Sometimes, Sherlock is like a dying sun, ticking down like a clock over the years, months, and weeks that turn to days and minutes, until he's seconds away from going supernova without even the slightest hint. That makes more sense, though, as to why John's so entranced by him. Maybe they're not both planets, maybe only John is and Sherlock is the only sun in his solar system with a gravity pulling him around and around and tighter with every orbit until he's is burning up. Maybe John doesn't have his _own_ gravity at all. Everything he is and feels is being sucked into Sherlock and all of his beautiful destruction, and John couldn't care less.

"Yes, that's _all I wanted._ As if my needs aren't warranted, _hmmpf_." His mock hurt is almost comical. John tries not to let his smile show in his words.

"Have you eaten today? Come join me for lunch." 

Sherlock sighs loudly enough for John to imagine him sprawling out on the sofa, his limbs dramatic and long. "What'll it be? Angelo's? Pied a Terre? Moti Mahal? Honestly John, if you wanted a free meal why don't you just ask instead of beat about the bush."

John stops mid-step, completely thrown. "What are you talking about? I'm leaving on my lunch break and just thought it'd be nice to see you? Since you did call my nearly eighty times in just five hours..."

"Oh, and not having your wallet has nothing to do with your invitation?" Sherlock asks, undeterred.

"What? No, of course not. I have my wallet right here." John pats his trouser pockets (front and back), then checks his coat pockets-all empty. "Right well, I didn't know I didn't have it!"

There's something strangely rigid in Sherlock's voice when he speaks. "I'll be at Angelo's in ten." Sherlock's end of the line clicks off abruptly without so much as a goodbye. _So bloody unpredictable._

Despite himself, John smiles. 

.::.

Hailing a cab proved to be virtually impossible without his lanky partner, so John shows up to Angelo's five minutes late having had to walk. Sherlock seems annoyed when John joins him at their usual table, but then again, he almost always seems annoyed. John doesn't let it phase him; he's absolutely _starved._

"Hungry at all today?" John asks, distracted by the many options on the menu in front of him.

Sherlock scoffs, replying by taking a swig of white wine.

John eyes the glass in his hand. he wonders if it's the same Chardonnay he had had yesterday. "Really? It's barely eleven AM."

"Oh _please_ spare me, John."

So John does. He merely raises his eyebrows in surrender, deciding both on not arguing and on ordering the soup and salad of the day. He doesn't even say anything when Sherlock orders another (very full) glass Chardonnay (He was right.).

"So what did the sister have to say?" John asks, both genuinely curious and just wanting to give Sherlock something better to do other than glower out the window.

"It's clear that the security guard-Mason Languin-had absolutely nothing to do with the murder. But his sister? I'm not convinced either way. She seemed...dodgy."

The sister? "But I thought we were looking for a man."

"I'm not always right."

" _That's_ a first," John says under his breath. Sherlock's eyes search the street through the window, perhaps a bit less glaring and more general observing. He tries to pinpoint what Sherlock's looking at, but his eyes can't follow quick enough. He's never quick enough.

"Nearly six hours."

"Six hours?" John's eyes move to search Sherlock's face. "What-"

Sherlock turns to stare at him hard. "It's barely been six hours since you saw me this morning."

John laughs. "Right. Well, thanks Sherlock, but I have a watch to tell time for me. Or my mobile."

"That you don't seem capable of using, apparently."

"I was working."

"Precisely."

Crossing his arms like he often does when annoyed or confused, John asks, "What're you getting at?"

"Only six hours have passed, and you _thought it'd be nice to see me_."

"Oh," John says, trying not to act as if he'd meant the earlier statement as wholeheartedly as he actually had. He really _had_ just wanted to see Sherlock; he'd missed him. Simple. "You're my best mate. _And_ we're on a case. What's so wrong with wanting to talk to you in person?"

Sherlock stares at him, eyes exploring his every surface surely resulting in deciphering his each and every thought. As usual. "But that's not what you said."

John stirs, shifting his feet below the table. "That sort of thing is implied, Sher. You know, basic social interaction-that sort of thing."

He's not sure if Sher's buying it. _Sher? Did I just say 'Sher' out loud?_ Shit. He definitely didn't mean to actually say that. He really, really hadn't meant to say that aloud. He resolves that it was only a matter of time before something like this slipped out, something that hints toward the reason his chest tightens when Sherlock laughs too brightly or makes him toast.

 _Everything_ is just a matter of time. John wonders what Sherlock could find if given enough of it. Enough time. Would he see the way his eyes always linger too long on his ridiculous cheekbones when he thinks no one is looking? Would Sherlock notice when his breath catches when he does something so miraculously simple as walk? Right now, can't he see John's heart where it rests, etched in the lines of his face? Can't Sherlock feel it beating, for him? Some days John is sure he can, sure Sherlock's figured him out. But that doesn't explain why he's still around or why he doesn't ever mention it. Others, he's positive Sherlock is completely oblivious. _Imagine that, an oblivious Sherlock Holmes._ Figures.

Sherlock smiles at him, not convincingly enough to be genuine, though, and claps his hands together. "Right. Looks like your food is here. _Delicious._ " He sounds sarcastic. 

John looks up and sure enough Angelo himself is making his way across the small dining room with his soup and salad in hand. When John picks up his fork to make room for his food, Sherlock returns to glaring out the window and doesn't even say hello to Angelo. Every now and then, he takes an angry gulp of wine, but that's it. It seems he's closed himself off, as he does. Off in the Mind Palace...

Despite his best efforts to convince himself that the world doesn't actually revolve around him and that Sherlock _isn't_ angry because of something he's done (or thought), halfway through his soup he's validated Sherlock's anger to be exactly that-the closeness he feels to Sherlock in his head, that somehow got spilled out into real life, and now he's scrambling to pull it all back to stash in his mind again. It's one of _those_ days then.

"Would you mind not slurping your soup like a Neanderthal?"

"Neanderthals didn't have _spoons_ , Sherlock."

Sherlock throws back the rest of his wine, surely forgetting that little ounce of information and storing it wherever he keeps his knowledge about the sun revolving around the earth. "Regardless, John, it's disgusting." 

John lets his spoon rest loosely in his hand. Sherlock really couldn't have uncovered his thoughts on him...could he have? John knows he's good, but is he _that_ good?

"Sherlock," he starts, hesitant to speak in case Sherlock's supernova is closer today. "Y'alright?" That's safe. A sensible way to ask his flatmate why he's acting like he's just found out his colleague's kind of maybe falling in love with him. Right?

"This _case_ , John! It's so _boring!_ " He sprawls out in his chair. "I've nearly got it. I can feel it. I can _feel it._ "

 _Oh, thank God._ John attempts to conceal his relief, but probably fails, knowing Sherlock. "Really? So soon? We barely have any evidence at all."

"Which is exactly why I'm making a trip to the aquarium again tonight." More to himself than to John, he repeats, " _I can feel it!_ "

"When will you be home?"

Sherlock stares at him flatly. "I _don't know_. You'll be with. You'll find out then."

John smiles with half his mouth. "Right."

Sherlock’s lip twitches. John tries to tell himself that Sherlock isn’t biting back a smile at the mere sight of his. He really does need to get a hold of his thoughts, before he’s completely lost at ever retrieving them from their inevitable spill to his mouth. A mouth that can form words that could possiblly burn what small atmosphere John’s been able to build up around himself into absolutely nothing at all. Again.

John wonders if it could all really be that bad, letting go, falling past the point of no return. _It couldn’t, could it?_ The thrill of the fall? The possibility of losing everything? How could that ever be bad? 

.::.

Sherlock suggests he walk with John back to work-to talk about the case of course. John agrees because, obviously, he isn’t to assume it’s for any other reason. (He does.) And, really, is it that outrageous that he spends the entire eleven minutes pondering how much warmer his fingers would be if wrapped within Sherlock’s hand? Their arms are brushing, their shoulders are so close. _So. Close._ Whenever they're close enough somehow they end up touching, probably by his own subconscious mind. He only hopes his mind isn't the only culprit

They stop just outside the hospital doors, and Sherlock hails a cab within a few moments. ( _Twat._ ) John has half an inclination to invite him inside. He isn’t quite sure of what they’d do once there. Introduce him to Sarah? Give him a tour? He’s met women like Sarah before and seen the halls of a hospital. There’s nothing new to show him. Yet John is just grasping at straws, at anything that allows Sherlock a glimpse at his life outside the cases, outside _their_ little life. He just wants to pull Sherlock into his own gravity for once, guide him down until he’s safe and warm and only _his_. And John’s come to the nasty realization that holding him and his hands and kissing him is the only way he can think of to draw him in. He knows he's right because the thought of it feels so familiar, like a dream come true.

Just before Sherlock steps into his cab, he says, “Meet me at the aquarium at half five.”

John puts his hands hand in his pockets, as if that somehow could hide his smile or the way his body leans closer. “Right.” He should be ashamed at how light his stomach becomes when he imagines Sherlock’s lips on his. He's not. This really is getting out of hand.

He walks into the hospital, not wanting to watch the cab drive off. Something about Sherlock leaving feels wrong, like his eyes don’t work properly when they can’t land on pale skin or those dark curls. He sighs, readying himself for the rest of his shift, but he feels…detached. He wonders if that soup had something in it to upset his stomach; that would be a more acceptable answer as to why his stomach feels like he just got off a roller coaster.

“Is that him, then?”

John looks up to see Sarah staring where Sherlock’s cab had just been. “Who?” he asks, but of course he knows. It’s not like everyone asks him or anything. Not that it bothers him anymore, apart from the fact now he’s torn on how to answer all the bloody questions. 'Are you dating?' _No, I wish._ 'You two totally shag, right?' _Stop bringing the lack of shagging up, will you?_

“ _Him!_ Your partner and _flatmate_.” Her voice sounds secretive, hushed like she’s gossiping. He doesn’t like it, if he’s honest. He doesn’t think him and Sherlock are a topic to be ashamed of. He’s done with focusing on what others think. Unfortunately that's given him too much time to think about what _he_ thinks. He doesn't think he likes that much either.

John shrugs into his doctors’ coat. “ _Him,_ ” he repeats. “He’s got a name, y’know.”

“Ah, yes. Mr. Sherlock Holmes: The Great Detective,” she says, smiling. “What’s the story with him, then?”

“Story? There’s no _story_ , unless you count what an annoying _prick_ he is half the time.”

She laughs. She’s always had a pretty laugh, John’s noticed. She’s pretty herself, actually. Something about her…it’s just pleasant. Like she would know exactly what to say when you most needed it. He leads them down the hallway, away from their offices.

“Oh, that definitely means there’s a story. Go on then! _Some_ thing!” she says.

John shoots her what he tries to be a humorous look. “Yeah, _some_ thing: he’s just my _friend_.” It feels like he’s lying, like he’s trying to convince the both of them.

They’ve stopped walking just outside the door of one of Sarah’s patients (A cast refitting, if John remembers correctly.). “Riiight, John, and I’m _just_ a ponytail in a white lab coat.”

He laughs under his breath, wondering why, if everyone in this entire city could see it, the world’s only Consulting Detective himself couldn’t. For Christ’s sake, even Sarah sees it! And she’s never even met Sherlock, let alone watched them interact with each other. She probably wouldn't even need to see how they act around one another; she could probably just phone Greg or Mrs. Hudson. They'd sort out all of her confusion right away.

“You’re wrong.”

“Wrong?" Sarah says. Her eyes move back and forth between John's. "Then why did you stop yourself from kissing your ‘just a friend’ on the sidewalk just now?”

When he can’t find his voice to answer, she shimmies her eyebrows, turns, and strides into her patients’ room smiling. She seems quite satisfied with herself. John stares after her, watching her ponytail bounce with her animated conversation. He sighs, resolved to attempt actually working. He knows he’ll be distracted all day, knows that the same thought will dance around his mind until it's all he can focus on. If Sarah was able to see that he’d almost kissed Sherlock, then Sherlock most definitely had noticed. There’s no way he couldn’t have.

_He knows. He knows I wanted to kiss him. He knows._

.::.

"There's got to be _something_ ," Sherlock says. He's standing just inside the crime tape, the yellow of it loud against the shades of blue and grey all around. He hasn't mentioned anything to do with what happened at the cab earlier, so he's either completely avoiding the situation because, of course, he's clever enough to avoid the awkwardness this whole thing entails ('this whole thing' being John's relentless _feelings_ ), or he's simply deleted the the account of John's almost-kiss altogether. John's tense, unrealistically hoping the latter is true. To distract himself, he looks around the crime scene. The yellow tape barring all three entrances into the room, the two hallways and the employee door in the far corner. The glass walls exhibit an empty tank. The employees Sherlock had talked to yesterday had said they were doing a routine cleaning, preparing this tank for an endangered species of fish that are soon to be in their custody. Now, though, the few puddles of water on the concrete look sad. Void. Gone.

 _Maybe Sherlock's right_ , John thinks. There has to be something they're missing; it's all too simple, too empty. Definitely not the "interesting" case Sherlock had thought it was, yet here they are, stumped. Sherlock had informed him earlier that the victim had died by poison, trace amounts in fact. The poison in his blood was so minuscule that it just barely killed him. Strange. It seems a murderer would be more thorough than that, use more than enough poison to be absolutely sure that their victim would die. John looks to the empty tank, reminded of the fruitlessness of both this case, if they didn't stumble upon clues he has a feeling just aren't here, and his relationship (or lack thereof) with Sherlock. _Pointless, it's all so pointless._ He just wants to go to sleep.

"It almost seems pointless to go on," John says, more to himself than to Sherlock or the thick air around them.

Sherlock's head jolts, looking up at him from the place the dead body had been found.

"Why're you looking at me like that?" John asks, unfolding his arms.

Sherlock's cheekbones look somehow sharper when his eyebrows pull together. "Like what?"

"Like I just beat you or stole your limelight or something." _As if I ever could._

He rolls his eyes. "I don't care about _limelight_ , John. No. No, it's the _work_. Always the work. Now repeat what you said before." 

John's mind goes blank, of course, the way it always does when someone asks him what is favorite movie is or what he likes to do as a 'hobby.' He doesn't have a proper chance to think before the empty spaces of his mind are bombarded by things he's dreamed of saying. _Let's go to the shark tank again, Sherlock, or another tank altogether. It doesn't matter. Just as long as I can compare to you every majestic creature my eyes land on,_ or _You look so good in dim lighting. If I suggest we spend the night together, room lit up with nothing but candles, would you object?,_ or _You're such an imbecile, I think I love you._ He doesn't know why, but he's reminded vaguely of the dream he had the night before, the one of Sherlock.

"It's too simple?"

Somehow completely unaware of John's proclamations of love in his thoughts, Sherlock starts pacing in front of the dusty glass. He nods his head. "Right, keep going."

John's thinks, ashamed that his petty stupid _feelings_ and artificial _dreams_ are distracting him from the case. Someone's been killed, for Christ sake, and all he can think of is the shadows on Sherlock's face in candlelight.

"It seems pointless to go on?" John says as if he's suggesting an entirely new idea instead of repeating something he's already said.

To the great pleasure of the butterflies in John's stomach, Sherlock's entire face lights up. "Oh, that's _it_ , John!" He swoops over to John, as quick and unpredictable as a shark, and grabs hold of John's biceps, lightly shaking him. "That's it! I could kiss you!"

 _Please do,_ John thinks, even though he's fairly certain Sherlock's has developed a telepathic ability since they've met. As a fleeting precaution, John thinks, _Just joking, Sher!_

Talking to the Sherlock in his head now; he really is in too deep.

.::.

"Lestrade. I will only repeat myself one more time: there has not been a murder. The evidence to point to such a conclusion is minimal, the footprints having been mistaken as a suspect when they were more than likely merely a very strange coincidence-and man for that matter. Our victim, obviously unpracticed in the use of poisons, killed himself. Luckily, he succeeded, but only just. That's all there is to it. 'Simple as pie' as you said in the cab, right John?" Sherlock finishes, sounding proud of himself. As per usual.

"Right. But Sherlock," John warns. "Nothing's 'lucky' about this. A man is dead."

Sherlock rolls his eyes at him. "Will my feeling sorry that he's dead miraculously bring him back to life?" His voice is sing-songy and mocking. "If your answer is 'yes,' please share with me how you've discovered a way to raise the dead, John. I'm all ears."

"It's only common human decency to mourn the dead, that's all," John says, sarcasm on his tongue. "Nothing too huge, really. Should be an easy concept to-"

"Boys!" Lestrade says.

John and Sherlock both whip their heads around to stare at Lestrade and say, " _What?!_ "

Lestrade is sitting on the edge of his desk, looking, in John's opinion, oddly intimidated. He thinks it's rather funny, actually. Him and Sherlock bicker a lot and often act like hot-headed schoolboys when they do, so it's really not at all surprising Lestrade tried to be the only responsible adult in the room. He wonders if Mrs. Hudson ever feels like that around the two of them.

Lestrade straitens his suit jacket. "Well. Sherlock, thank you for getting to the bottom of this in-what was it-two days? I believe that might be record time."

"Yeah, for an _interesting_ case, record time _maybe_ ," Sherlock says, glowering. There's a twitch in his lip that tells John he's not actually angry, something he's not sure Lestrade has picked up on. There are so many things about Sherlock that no one picks up on. Like how he plays the same variation of songs on his violin depending on his mood and how to use the music to gauge how to approach him. Or how his lips taste and how he likes his tea. _It was just a dream,_ John tells himself. _Just a dream..._

Lestrade just grunts and lifts his eyebrows and begins to shift through some folders on his desk. "Thanks again, mates. I have some paperwork to get started on so..."

Taking the hint, John heads for the door. He holds it open for Sherlock. He's about to follow his flatmate across the threshold before he hears Lestrade chuckling to himself.

"I'm sorry John, but do you two always bicker like that? Like an old-"

John swallows grimace at yet another reminder that him and Sherlock _aren't_ in fact an 'old married couple,' and tries to make his eyes kind. "'Like an old married couple?' Really Greg, when you've lived with someone for practically two years, you tend to have a row now and again," he says.

Lestrade's eyebrows furrow. "Yes, alright. G'night, John."

"G'night." John smiles and closes the door behind him. When he reaches Sherlock in the hall he's met with strange look. Like he's confused or concerned. Or maybe it's both.

"What?" John asks, to which Sherlock answers with a slow blink of his eyes.

.::.::.

His dreams are laced with Sherlock again, interwoven with whimsical violin playing. It's a different kind of Sherlock, though. He's not a dying sun here, no he's an entire thriving _world_. This Sherlock, John's sure, could sustain all walks of life just by _breathing_. He's special. He's alive and lush and there's always something more just under the surface, just behind a dark curl. There's something about him that's new. He walks different, more on the balls of his feet. Bouncy. (Take his boyish attitude and mannerisms and multiply them by ten and you'll have _this_ Sherlock, the Sherlock of John's dreams.) He smiles more. He tries to make John laugh for no reason at all, he just seems to enjoy hearing the sound. He breaks into John's flat regularly and waits patiently at his desk, hacking away at his laptop or leaving him random facts on sticky notes around John's possessions like he's trying to weave himself further into John's life. He even offers to go pick up the milk. In his dreams, though, John is always too content and never wants Sherlock to leave for longer than it takes to blink because any time spent not watching Sherlock breathe is time wasted. So he says no to Sherlock's offers, instead making offers of his own with his lips and skin and his heart on his sleeve.

 _"Sherlock, offering to buy me milk. This_ must _be a miracle."_

Sherlock smiles, wrapping his arms around John where he stands between his legs at his desk. Sherlock's hands are warm where they rub John's back. He relaxes into the touch, the feel of him something John needs. It's so real, how could it be real? How could _Sherlock_ ever be real?

Sherlock leans his forehead against John's chest, humming a song John doesn't know but it sounds familiar. This Sherlock doesn't seem to have a problem with touching, with affection, with bloody sentiment. This Sherlock _loves_ it. All of it. The touching, the kissing, the _I love you_ 's, the sex. All of it. It seems that anything that John wants, when it comes to this Sherlock, he gets. So he lives without thinking, breathes without hurting, because his Sherlock is here. His Sherlock is right here. Always right here, with him. Real...

Violent violin playing wakes John up around four in the morning. He slams a pillow over his head, thankful he has the late shift at work today. He doesn't fall asleep again, as hard as he tries. His mind is spinning too fast for sleep, too caught up in his dream to ever calm his breathing or beating heart. With thoughts of tea and the prospect of conversation, John stretches and shuffles downstairs in just his pants and a tee shirt.

"A bit early to be up, isn't it?" Sherlock asks, barely pausing his bow on the strings to do so.

"With no thanks to you, Sher," John says. The wood floor is too cold on his feet when he steps into the kitchen for him to care that he used Sherlock's nickname again. He mildly regrets not throwing on a dressing gown before coming down. While he waits for the kettle to boil, he retrieves Sherlock's white cup from it's place beside the microscope on the table and washes it. He tries to remember the Sherlock in his dream, but he's faded now, almost gone. John does remember his smile though, his dream Sherlock's smile. Bright, unguarded, and welcoming, like he had nothing to hide. So perfect, like everything he's ever wanted... The kettle whistles, making John jump back to reality.

Sherlock sets down his instrument and bow gently and takes his tea from John's outstretched hand. "John..?"

He sounds subdued, hesitant. John's learned to be weary of a hesitant Sherlock. "Yes?" he asks, making himself comfy on the sofa.

Sherlock perches barely on the edge of his armchair, not looking comfy at all. "When we were leaving The Yard earlier-"

"Yesterday," John says after sipping on his tea.

"Yes, yes. Either way," he shakes his head. "When we were leaving- I wanted to ask you something." His eyes earnestly search John's face. Looking for answers wherever he could, they flick down to his hands, to his bare and hairy legs, and then back to his eyes. Almost...desperate.

John sighs. This is something Sherlock should be able to get by now. "Lestrade always says we argue like an old married couple, you know. I only said when you live with someone for a time, it's only natural to fight every now and again." That's what he was talking about, wasn't it?

Sherlock closes his eyes. His tea lies untouched in his hands and the steam rises up to blur the hard lines of his face. "John when did we first meet?"

John set's down his tea. What is Sherlock _saying_? His own memory is a little hazy, when it comes to it, but honestly, how could Sherlock not know when they met? _We met nearly two years ago,_ John thinks. It was May of 2012. He had ran into Mary Morstan, a childhood friend of Harry's, randomly at a small cafe, which was a pleasant surprise, and revived his old friendship with her over lunch. They'd talked about Harry, the divorce, and the war, and what they were doing with their lives. After she left (giving him her new mobile number), Sherlock had walked up, sat down, and began to ramble on as if they'd known each other for months, as if they were best mates already. In retrospect, John figures they really were best mates right off the bat. Something about the way Sherlock looked at him that first day told him it was fate, made him question his previous doubts in 'love at first sight.' "Sherlock, I can't believe you deleted this? It's a simple fact. It's not that hard to just, shuffle things around in your _Mind Palace_ , I'm sure."

Sherlock looks at him and his eyes feel piercing, like he's reading John's thoughts again, but says nothing. He can be infuriatingly patient when he wants to be.

An uneasy feeling settles over John when he remembers, more clearly, that Mike Stamford had played matchmaker and introduced them only only eight months ago. But no, that can't be right..can it? He has this far away notion that he's known Sherlock for forever. Something about him just screams _home_ and the gravity of it all has just pulled John to him. But that doesn't-can't-explain why he thought for a moment they'd known each other for over a year and a half. Maybe it just _feels_ like he's known Sherlock for almost two years. He's just comfortable with him, that's all. It's easy to lose track of time when you think you're falling in love. That happens. Right?

"Eight months ago. Mike Stamford introduced us." It feels like he's lying.

"Hmm." Sherlock's eyes are down, studying his tea. "Thanks for this." He waves his mug at John then goes to sit at his microscope, taking notes immediately after sitting down.

John's eyes follow him. "Did you play loud and terrible on your violin _just_ so I would wake up and you could ask me that?"

Sherlock doesn't look up from the neck of the microscope. "Mmmhmm."

_"Fantastic."_

Aggravated, John goes to make his way back up to his room, feeling sleepier with warm tea in his stomach and wanting to forget that his memory is playing tricks on him, no matter how ironic that sounds. But something stops him in the doorway. "Sherlock? Have you been opening my curtains while I sleep?"

"Your curtains, John? What reason would I have to touch your curtains at all." His voice is flat. John knows he's telling the truth.

"I d'know. To annoy me."

"John if I wanted to annoy you I wouldn't choose something so insignificant as opening your _curtains_ when you least expect it." Sherlock looks up at him, something like concern in his secretive eyes.

When John drifts back to sleep thirty minutes later, apart from the sound of a half remembered melody, he doesn't dream at all.


	3. I Need a Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dreams are getting worse, of that John is acutely aware. It's not that the dreams aren't pleasant, they are, it's just. They're almost _too_ pleasant. Too real. They give John's waking mind something to toy with, something to think about when him and Sherlock are alone in the backseat of a cab at night or drinking tea together in their flat, or any other time John's mind shouldn't be conjuring up all the things he's wanted to. Like flirt under the sun or talk in his room all night, sitting on his bed to watch the sunrise through open curtains. It's easy to forget the real world, like this. It's easy to pretend he doesn't have the memories of death, of blood, of attempted suicides.
> 
> They help him forget the gravity of it all. The possibility of collision. Sometimes he thinks that might be a good thing, in the end.
> 
> .::.::.
> 
> Wherein clues are found, dreams are had, and Mary Morstan meets the famous Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock!" John yells from in front of his wardrobe. He's wrapped in his dressing gown, dreading the moment he'll have to take it off to actually get dressed. He thinks he'll wear his collared grey button-down and cream jumper, the one Harry--which really means Cara--got him last Christmas. "Sherlock, are you in?"

No response. _Humpf._ He pulls his trousers on. Lately it seems that whenever he's alone the silence is too much to bare. With only one set of lungs circulating the air around the flat, John thinks he might go crazy with how deafening it all is. He used to crave this sort of thing, during his term. He used to dream of stagnant air and warm jumpers while he sweat, trying to sleep among gunfire. He never thought he'd hate it so much, the idleness of quiet.

When Mrs. Hudson doesn't come up to say good morning while he shuffles around the kitchen making his usual breakfast of two scrambled eggs and waiting for the kettle, John sends Sherlock a text: **Where are you? -JW** His phone rings sooner than he can return it to his pocket. John doesn't have to glance at the name on the screen before answering. "Morning."

"He didn't leave a note," Sherlock says.

John pours the boiling water in his mug. "Good morning, John. How are you today? Good, thanks. Nice of you to ask, Sherlock. How are you?"

"The 'suicide' victim. He didn't leave a note. How could I have _missed_ that?! Stupid, _stupid_ ," Sherlock says, ignoring John's comment, mind working too fast for teasing.

John thinks back to the first case they ever solved together, A Study In Pink he'd called it. He's a bit surprised and ashamed he hadn't thought of it last night when Sherlock had been, what he had thought, solving the case. In his defense his mind as been a bit occupied lately. In that first case though, Moriarty had inadvertently killed three people by way of a dying cabbie, who had forced his victims to kill themselves with poison, almost exactly the same as the poison found in their victim. The cabbie is dead though, and so is Moriarty. Even if he was still alive, he'd be too creative for that. He seemed the man that wouldn't let the same murder happen twice under his name. That's too _boring_.

"Have you phoned Greg?"

"Greg?" John can picture Sherlock's expression perfectly, the one that means he's confused but instead he just look kind of disgusted. "Lestrade, right. Yes I did, and he was nothing less than _thrilled_ by the news. He'd only just finished up the paperwork this morning. I don't understand! _What am I missing?!_

It is strange Sherlock missed anything at all. He _is_ human, though, so he has the capacity for mistakes. He just never allows himself the opportunity. He's _Sherlock Holmes_ ; it's what he does. He isn't exactly famous for only being right fifty percent of the time. With him, it's all or nothing.

 _Maybe_ , John thinks, _he's distracted too._ He takes a hopeless bite of eggs, knowing if Sherlock was ever distracted--if he ever could be distracted--it wouldn't be by stupid bloody feelings. And especially not feelings toward _him_.

And Sherlock's still rattling on in his ear, talking without a need for an audience. As usual.

"...the body was facing toward the glass, yes? Was he looking at something? What were you looking at? The tank? No; empty. Hmm. Or was it?" Sherlock pauses for a moment, and John thinks he hears a heavy door shutting. "Ah, residual sand and dirt, no doubt the work of a lazy employee. Something, there's got to be. Something just under my nose."

John listens on, quietly enthralled. He wonders if he should just hang up; Sherlock probably wouldn't even notice. He just likes to think out loud, John knows, and the phone against his ear makes him look more sane when he's alone. John feels that Sherlock is owed some type of kindness here and there. He's worth the small things. So he doesn't hang up.

They're two stars right now, Sherlock burning bright, thoughts racing, and John is left glowing in his shadow. It seems John's always fighting for Sherlock, for his attention, respect, to be seen in the dark. Fighting to be linked to him somehow. It's small things like this that cast the farthest line. Things like cab rides and tea, interesting cases and toast, and little phone calls like this one that hook and the only tether between them, from light years away, is the sound of Sherlock's voice. John _needs_ the small things, they're the only thing that tie them together, when it all comes down to it. John can't let him drift out of orbit. _Not again._

"Oh! John this is brilliant, it really is." Sherlock laughs and continues to talk to himself even after he's pulled the phone from his mouth as he (John assumes) texts someone. Lestrade probably.

"Someone was here, John. In this tank. It wasn't empty when the man took the poison, nooo. It was displaying the art and cunning of a clever, clever man. A clown, if you will. Awfully huge feet, as you said. He was here and the victim _saw_ him. This changes everything!"

John imagines what it could possibly be like to get a look inside Sherlock's mind. It'd be an exotic place, like a nebula out in space, colorful and possessing a kind of chaos that enchants. Beautiful, John knows without a doubt that Sherlock's mind would be the rawest and most spectacular work of art he could ever lay eyes on or even imagine. He wonders if he'll ever be given the chance to try.

"Right," he says. Hearing Sherlock deduce makes it feel like he's beside him at the crime scene. Wait. It's only half six, the aquarium's not open yet. Not this early. Probably only half the employees are there, if that. "Sherlock, did you break in?"

"Hardly. The key code lock on one of the back doors was insultingly easy to crack." His voice is distant again, the phone away from his face. John hears what sounds like the muffled words "the note."

"A note, Sherlock? Did you just say-"

"Yes," Sherlock cuts him off mid-sentence. "Earlier this morning I asked Molly if she could look over our victim again because she obviously missed something." _Not obvious._ "She agreed, as I knew she would,-" _Smug bastard._ "-and just texted me, only moments ago, a picture of a small hand-written note reading, 'Thank you,' that had been balled up, swallowed, and had hidden itself somewhere in the man's small intestines," Sherlock finished in a flourish.

"How had she missed that?"

"My thoughts exactly."

John licks his lips. "But why 'Thank you?' That's not much of a suicide note."

"Potential."

"What?"

"Two words have never held so much _potential_ ," Sherlock says. His voice is thoughtful. John wonders what he's looking at, what secrets are being held in his eyes now.

"There's no potential in suicide, Sherlock."

He's quiet for a moment, leaving John to wonder again, what he could be thinking.

"Isn't there?"

John's shoulder aches. What a loaded question. 

.::.::.

_A waiter passed in front of him shifting his attention up from the paper in front of him. John was surprised to see a face from his past. "Mary? Mary Morstan?"_

_She looked lovely, really. Just as she always did. Absolutely lovely. Her hair was still short, glowing blonde in the sunlight, barely shifted when she lifted her head at the sound of her name._

_"John Watson," she said, smiling behind sunglasses. "It's been an_ age _. Mind if I..?"_

_"No, no please," John said, moving the stray pages he wasn't reading at the moment, and gesturing for her to come sit._

_"John Watson," she repeated as she set her glass on the table and purse on the ground, like she didn't quite believe it either. "How long has it been exactly?"_

_The ice tinkled in his glass when John took a sip of his iced tea. Even under the brolly attached to the table, it was warm. It felt like the sun was baking through the plastic. He wasn't used to it, the three years he spent in Afghanistan not having had much effect on his tolerance for the weather. "Five years?"_

_"What a long time, five years." Mary glanced down at the menu still in her hands. "What's good here? I've never been."_

_If she was anything like she used to be, John knew she would want something healthy. "The Avocado Sandwich. By far," he said. "Healthy_ and _delicious"_

_After the waiter came by to take their orders, Mary asked, "So. Five years. what have you been up to?"_

_"Well the last three years I've been away. Just got back, actually. From Afghanistan."_

_"Oh, that's right. Military." She looked put off by the idea of him in uniform, of John killing someone. He pretended not to notice her surprise when she saw his cane, and they way her eyes kept darting back to it. "And before that?" she asked._

_John fiddled with the paper he'd moved his lap. "You know. Harry." He didn't look at her._

_"How is she?" Mary asked. They'd been friends in primary school, her and Harry--Cara too. John tried to remember what Harry had been like then. It was hard to think of her as anything other than a drunk, dependent on her ceaseless addiction._

_"Not great, to be honest," John said, thinking back to the day he'd returned from Afghanistan and had waited for her to pick him up from the airport. After an hour an a half he realized nothing had changed in the three years he'd been gone. He hadn't even phoned to ask were she was; he just called a cab._

_The waiter brought them their sandwiches, and, after an approving bite, Mary said, "Poor Cara," and took a sip of water._

_"Yeah," John said. He didn't feel bad for his sister, not anymore. But Cara? She'd gotten the short end of the stick, too. Like him. "Well."_

_Mary eyed John over the rim of her glass that was still in her hand, as he took a bite of his chicken sandwich. The condensation wet the circumference of it and threatened to slip off. It was too warm out; John didn't like the warmth. "I guess it hasn't been easy for you, either, John. Terrible situation all around."_

_He barked a laugh that lacked humor. "No. No it hasn't. After three years, I thought things might have gotten better." He shook his head. "I shouldn't have made up excuses as to why she never phoned. Or wrote."_

_Mary's expression looked pained. The way people look when the animal rescue commercials went on the telly. "No excuse would be enough," she said._

_They finished their meals in relative silence. It was comfortable. John read the last few pages of the paper while Mary tapped at her phone. They were good together, always had been. Something in the way they could stand just breathing the same air and nothing else. John wondered why they'd never dated in the past, or tried to date. He'd never really thought of it before then, but it all made sense._

_"John." Mary looked up from her phone. "Why're you looking at me the way you used to look at your French homework?"_

_"And how's that?"_

_"Like you don't know what the_ hell _you're doing." She laughed._

 _John smiled, and, despite the heat, it touched his eyes. "I was thinking of why we'd never tried dating. In the past. We'd have been cute, I think."_

_Mary stood, siding her arms through her cardigan, and laughed outright, which confused him. "Us? Oh, John, you're a laugh. Now get up and hug me goodbye. I've got to get back."_

_He did as she said, looking confused, and when they pulled away from each other, Mary said, "You're right, though. We would have been cute." She leaned in to kiss him on the cheek before turning and hailing a cab from the curb in barely just one minute. He never understood how people could do that. It always took him ages._

_He turned back to his table to find a curly haired man crouched down, inspecting his cane. He didn't know what to think because he'd always envisioned something like this happening, some stranger taking his belongings and him, John Watson, fighting for it back. But he never thought his perpetrator would be so handsome._

_"Nice cane," he said, his voice deeper than expected. He ran a hand through his hair as he stood, cane still in one hand. "Can I borrow your mobile?"_

_John stared at him. "I don't have one."_

_The man smiled out of the side of his mouth. "I see it in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me? That_ is _how the saying goes, isn't it?"_

_Three years of combative service and twenty-nine years of being straight gave John an edge. He took a stance in front of this stranger and tried not to think about how light his eyes looked in the sunlight. Almost like there wasn't anything hiding in them, no secrets. Like they were innocent._

_"Oh, don't get so defensive. It's not like you've never thought about it before." He held out his hand, not for John to shake, but for John to hand him his mobile. He didn't know why he wanted to give in so badly. Why this all seemed so familiar. "Now, about that mobile."_

_Without thinking and almost childlike, John said, "I'll have my cane back." The man's eyes moved back to the object in question. John thought before adding, "First."_

_The man's grey eyes looked up from the cane, but his head didn't move. "Your cane, sir," he said as he handed it to John, bowing, then sat in the chair Mary had been occupying barely over five minutes before._

_"Well, I don't think I invited you to--"_

_"Your_ phone _?"_

_He sat impatiently, elbow perched on the tabletop and hand still held flat, ready for the mobile. After the annoyance of his persistence was overlooked, it was really quite admirable. And interesting in the strangest way. John sat across from him, and put his mobile beside his plate. The man waited little more than a few seconds before snatching it up and hacking away at it faster than Mary had been earlier on her own mobile phone._

_"So," he said, putting the phone down in the middle of the table as if they shared it or something. "How does one do this?"_

_His skin looked soft, and where the sun touched it, it even glowed. Stories bubbled up from John's childhood, making him wonder vaguely about fairies and magic or halos and angels. He never believed those stories as a kid, though, and he'd never been religious, so he didn't really know why they came to mind. There was just something hypnotic about the man, this stranger, like something wasn't real about him. Something too pure in his light grey eyes. Something like gravity._

_"Do what?" John asked. He didn't grab his phone back._

_"_ This. _From my research, I've done everything right so far. Used a chat-up line, showed interest, met at a public or private location preferably a restaurant--although, I've heard lunch isn't the best time. Too cordial. I may be starting to agree with that--, and, lastly, give and receive a mobile phone number. Did I miss anything?"_

 _John blinked at him. "No, but I'm afraid_ I _did."_

_He drew in a breath, one that John assumed would be used for a re-explanation of what seemed to be the steps of first, getting, and second, going on a-- "Date?" John asked. "You think this is a date?"_

_"Oh, John, don't be so dramatic." He tried to wave down the waiter, to no avail._

_John's back stiffened. "John?"_

_The stranger laughed, then, pointing to John's phone like it was the most obvious thing. "You had unread texts, three of which addressed you by John." His voice sounded superior. John couldn't bring himself to be offended._

_"What's your name, then?" John asked._

_The man was getting up though, about to walk away. "Order for me, yeah? I've got to use the loo."_

_"You didn't answer me!" John called. A few people at neighboring tables eyed him curiously._

_The stranger turned over his shoulder and flashed a smile. "Name's Sherlock! Holmes. Consulting detective. Bright new field."_

_Watching Sherlock Holmes walk away from him, John thought he knew why Mary had laughed._

.::.

The dreams are getting worse, of that John is acutely aware. It's not that the dreams aren't pleasant, they are, it's just. They're almost _too_ pleasant. Too real. They give John's waking mind something to toy with, something to think about when him and Sherlock are alone in the backseat of a cab at night or drinking tea together in their flat, or any other time John's mind shouldn't be conjuring up all the things he's wanted to. Like flirt under the sun or talk in his room all night, sitting on his bed to watch the sunrise through open curtains. It's easy to forget the real world, like this. It's easy to pretend he doesn't have the memories of death, of blood, of attempted suicides.

They help him forget the gravity of it all. The possibility of collision. Sometimes he thinks that might be a good thing, in the end.

.::.

_The rain beat against the windows, and John remembered why he loved London so much. It's the rain, it made him feel more at home. He was kind of glad for the random spurt of rain in the middle of June, as if London's ever really had a_ true _summer anyway. He was trying to follow his therapist's advice and write on the blog she forced him to create. He thought about his life, about how he goes to work, comes home, cooks, and eats dinner, then maybe (on exciting days) wanks off a bit before calling it a night. That was all his life boiled down to. Nothing really happened to him. Nothing of import or worth writing down on a pointless blog. Seeing Mary that afternoon in May had been a rarity. Meeting Sherlock Holmes had been a treat, though. Totally random and wonderful as he sat down at John's table and was somehow an amiable asshole with an ego the size of Mars. Maybe he could write about that, about the only exciting thing that had happened to him since being back in London. He wrote about how the sun had glinted off Sherlock's grey eyes and soft, fairy tale skin, and the way he kind of couldn't seem to get him out of his head._

_He was almost twelve hundred words down the page before the power shut off. Great, just great. He just started writing and his computer only had a three hour charge. He got up to rustle things around in the drawers in his kitchen, looking for matches or a lighter. He had a candle around here somewhere._

_"'And he smiled as if he were about to tell the world's best joke, one only he knew the punch line to out of all the billions of people on Earth, and then decided to keep it all to himself. I wonder if he's the kind of bloke to save that kind of thing for someone he feels is deserving enough, for someone who somehow holds the right to laugh at the World's Best Joke.' Hmm. Observant."_

_John's hand stopped where it hovered over a box of matches. Sherlock Holmes was in his flat, standing in front of his laptop, reading his private blog post. He looked back and forth between where Sherlock stood and where the stairs lead down to his front door. He hadn't used the front door? Right? Of course he did; how else would he have gotten inside?_

_"How the bloody hell didn't I hear you?" he asked instead of,_ How did you get in? _or,_ How do you know where I live?

 _There was the flick of a lighter in the darkness and Sherlock's face was lit up by the quavering amber light he was holding. "Perhaps you just weren't listening carefully enough. Too distracted by writing about all the 'sun and the lack of secrets in my eyes?'"_

_"Don't read that," John said, stepping around the kitchen counter but did nothing else to make him stop. "It's personal."_

_Sherlock fluttered his eyelashes in a mock innocence that managed to get a smile out of John because he believed it. Sherlock let his thumb off the lighter, distinguishing the tiny flame. There was only the blue-white glow of John's laptop and nothing else. The eerie light paired with Sherlock in his long coat and wind tousled hair and the thunder outside made the room feel colder. The only thing between them was shadow. John shivered._

_Sherlock snapped the laptop closed. John couldn't tell if he was moving through the dark, there was no rustle of clothes or telling breath. "John," Sherlock's voice whispered in his ear making John jump. "If you can't get me out of your head, why didn't you meet me for our second date?" He sounded like he was pouting. "I'm hurt."_

_John turned around to face him, eyes adjusting to the dark, but Sherlock wasn't there._ Why can't I hear him? _"First. First date, not second," he said. He stood still and let his eyes roam the walls, searching through the shadows for Sherlock Holmes. "Where are you?"_

_The weirdest part of all this wasn't the fact that Sherlock somehow broke into his flat or that Sherlock could be a possible murderer here to kill him, but it's the fact that John_ wasn't _scared. All of his common sense and military training told him that he should be frightened, scared for his safety. But he wasn't. He felt alive._

 _"You really should get some more candles, John," Sherlock said. He sounds like he's somewhere in the corner where John's bed sat. "Isn't that what you people do? Light candles on dates? More_ romantic _or whatnot."_

_"Is that what this is then? A date?" John tried to decide if the darker shadow on his bed was Sherlock's body or not._

_Sherlock laughed. "No, don't be daft. This is a_ second _date."_

_There was another flick of a lighter and Sherlock's face lit up again, this time standing beside John's bed, the one candle he owned in Sherlock's hands. He lit it and set it on the bedside table. "Second dates are much more romantic, John, that's what I've gathered." He looked around at all the flat surfaces. "Do you have any more candles?"_

_John shook his head. "Sherlock, why are you so persistent? What if I don't want you here?"_

_Sherlock laughed. "I like your humorous side, John."_

_John didn't answer, only moved closer, pretending it wasn't of his own free will. Sherlock felt the springs of the mattress with his hands and muttered, "This will have to do," before climbing onto it and sitting criss-cross with his back against the wall. John liked how Sherlock looked in the unsteady light. Scary almost. His too sharp cheekbones looked sharper when the light never stopped dancing, and his eyes didn't look as clean as they did in sunshine. John didn't know what to make of it, of him, especially now as he sat on his bed ruffling the sheets._

_Because John was taking too long to answer and Sherlock seemed to always know what to say, he filled the silence with an invitation. "Come. Watch the stars; isn't that something people do? The sunrise too. I don't quite see the point, but I'm under the impression you'd enjoy it."_

_"The sunrise is_ hours _away!" John said, contradicting the steps he was taking to bring him to his bed where the pull was nearly impossible to fight._

_Sherlock shrugged. "I don't sleep."_

_Sitting down beside him, vaguely wondering why his coat wasn't soaking wet from the rain, John said, "I do! I've got work tomorrow at half seven."_

_Sherlock scoffed. "Work. That's not work. That doesn't count."_

_John looked at him, saw the profile of his stern expression. "Sherlock, I'm a doctor. I save people's lives."_

_"Not the people who matter."_

_John felt something rise up inside of him, like magma, slow and hot. "_ Every _person matters."_

_Sherlock leaned forward and blew out the candle. "Who saves the doctors?"_

.::.::.

Deciding to meet Mary for lunch turns out to be both good and bad. It's good because she says Cara has been actually quite good lately and knowing that she's happy warms him a little bit. That way he can pretend that Harry hadn't fucked up their marriage and that they were both still happy and very much in love. It's nice pretending sometimes.

And, according to Mary, Cara's actually been seeing someone for a couple months now. Nothing serious, so soon after her and Harry splitting, but John is glad she's finally comfortable to get back out there. After the divorce, Cara and Mary were better sisters to him than Harry has been in ages. She pushes everyone away.

But it's bad because she asks questions like, "Enough about me, John! How've _you_ been?" because he doesn't entirely know how to answer questions like that.

He smiles, sticking with a safe answer. "I've been alright."

"Yeah?" She sounds hesitant. He doesn't know when people started thinking that asking about his personal life would be dangerous.

"Yeah," John says like that sums it all up. No one word could ever really sum up his life or even begin to describe all the cases, work at the clinic, and Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock. How could _anything_ describe Sherlock? No string of the most beautiful phrases could ever capture how the man merely blinks, let alone anything more miraculous like breathing.

"And your shoulder?" she asks. He knows she means his limp.

"Fine, fine. Hasn't bothered me bad in months."

"Good, that's good..." Mary lets her voice fade out. It's uncomfortable and that's odd because conversations with her are never awkward. They never have been. She sets down her coffee signalling John to prepare himself. "I'm- Well- You know I wouldn't be asking unless it was important, but I'm worried about you, John."

He straitens in the metal chair. She must be referring to the war, he assumes, and when people mention his term he always resorts to old habits, like sitting up straight and being stone-faced and flinching at sudden noises.

"The war was ages ago, Mary. Even the nightmares have stopped by now," he says, leaving out the minor detail that gloriously vivid dreams of a (somehow) more perfect Sherlock have taken their place. He doesn't prefer the nightmares, no, but something about these dreams makes him uneasy because sometimes he wishes he had the Sherlock in his dreams instead of the Sherlock he's already got.

Mary laughs without humor. "No, John, my god. This isn't about the war." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "It's that--I hear you're back with _him_ is all."

 _Back?_ He sets his coffee down, giving her a hard stare. Not once had he pegged her as the kind to care or believe all the rumors. "If this is about Sherlock-"

"Of course it's about Sherlock! Really, how did you not thing I'd at least bring him up after you suggested we meet here? At this cafe?"

She's looking at him as if she's solved some big riddle, not unlike how Sherlock looks at him when he's expecting John to follow his train of thought, and John responds to Mary the way he often does to Sherlock: annoyed and confused.

"I don't see what this _cafe_ has to do with any of the rumors surrounding Sherlock and I--at all," he says while crossing his arms.

"Don't play stupid with me. I've seen your blog; I know you're with him." She straitens the condiments that are on the table and makes sure all the sugar packets are all squared. "Although," she continues, "it does seem you understand now that he's not perfect. That he's actually human."

John just stares at her. The blog, maybe he could understand. Maybe. He might get a little carried away when he tries to describe Sherlock and maybe he's not surprised if he accidentally slips some of his feelings between the punctuation. But the cafe? What does _this_ place have anything to do with Sherlock?

"D'know why you keep saying 'with him.' We're not dating." He traces the outline of the glass mosaic tabletop. Odd, the dream he had last night had a similar tabletop in it. 

Marry narrows her eyes at him, obviously deciding whether to believe him or not. "But I thought you were living together?"

"Right." He wonders if he should mention the fact that the's in love with him.

"Oh sweetie. That's just wrong." Her hands wrap around her coffee cup the way they'd wrap around someone when they needed to be comforted: measured and delicate. She looks up. "Does he know?"

"Does he know what, exactly?" John asks, controlled.

"That you _want_ to be with him. That you're still in love with him." John tries to interject but she stops him. "But, if all you say about this true, it wouldn't be that much of a surprise if he already knows. I mean, He _knows_ you, John. Back when-"

"WHY-" John nearly yells. That seems to happen when he lets his anger boil, simmer just under the surface. He clears his throat. "Why do you keep saying 'back with' and 'still' and 'again' as if we have a past?" A sad look falls on her face that he doesn't understand. "And, while I'm at it, why're you acting like Sherlock's some criminal? Like you'd be disappointed in me if the rumors _were_ true?" 

"John, I'm not disappointed in you. I've never _not_ liked him-"

"You've never met him!" She ignores him, pretending not to have heard--to prove a point probably, but that's not like her. That's not like the Mary he knows.

"-it's just that this is what people like him _do_. They draw you in again and again only to drop you when they lose interest." Her voice turns soft and she reaches across the table for his hand. He wasn't aware he needed comfort. It feels familiar, somehow, even though it's been almost ten months since he's done so little as see her, as if he's used to be comforted by her.

"It was bad enough last time, John," Mary says. "I don't want to see you like that again."

"Again?" John says, prompting.

She watches him for a moment, taking in the genuinely confused look on his face and John's scared she'll start crying soon. "Oh sweetie," she repeats but this time the grip of her hand changes everything. _What the hell happened?_

"As riveting as I'm sure the story behind this tragic scene is, I'm in dire need of my doctor."

Somehow Sherlock Holmes is standing at their two-person table dressed in actual day clothes and not the dressing gown he's worn for almost the entirety of the last four days. He keeps telling himself not to be surprised when it comes to Sherlock, but it seems he's constantly forgetting to keep listening. John looks up at him hoping for and almost expecting a much needed explanation to why Mary Morstan is clutching his arm, talking about a strange past, and trying not to cry. Sherlock frowns, shrugging in reply.

John looks between Sherlock and Mary. "Right. Er... Mary this is Sherlock, Sherlock meet Mary, an old friend of my mind and my sister's."

Mary stares blankly up at him, looking for some reason like she is about to be sick or like she's stopped breathing. Maybe it's both.

"But you're not re-"

"Not what you expected?" Sherlock suggests too fast, an odd look on his face. "Haven't you read John's blog? His descriptors are atrocious." He fixes his scarf and collar, preening himself.

John scoffs, just glad Mary isn't about to cry anymore.

"No. Actually, you're _exactly_ what I was expecting," Mary says, talking slow like something amazing has just happened but she doesn't want to let herself believe it. Like she witnessed a miracle.

Sherlock frowns down at her, no doubt mentally picking apart her appearance and piecing it all together again to form her life story.

"Well, I need John."

John glances up. "For what?"

Sherlock smiles like it's Christmas. "There's been another one."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is so late, i've been caught up with school and dates (yeah weird i have a gf now??) but yeah here it is! not beta'd but my stuff hardly is bc i get impatient and just want to post things right away (like now). let me know what you think! have a great day, i hope everyone's finals are going swimmingly!


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